Chapter 5: I May Be English...
The sound of Kathleen's practice session filled the street as Peter Clifford trudged up the hill to his house. He noted that she'd left the door open, and wondered it if was so the town could hear her play, or if it was meant to draw him into the sanctuary? No matter, he decided. He was going to go home, make a sandwich and listen to the match on the radio.
The match was good. Middlesborough was up by two, but the opposition was starting to mount a serious offense. Just as they were about to narrow the margin to a single point, someone knocked at the door. Peter turned off the radio and went to answer.
"Father, are you ready for tomorrow?" Kathleen could certainly be insistent.
"Yes, I'll get everything together after morning Mass." The shopkeeper looked aghast. "Why does everyone think I'm nervous about this?"
"Well, Father, the first christening is always…"
"Everyone's expecting me to do a Father O'Doyle, aren't they?" Kathleen looked aghast, but Peter was just getting started. "Look. I'm home, I'm drinking tea, and I won't be late for the christening. I may be English, but that doesn't mean I'm going to blow the service tomorrow!"
Kathleen instinctively moved back a step to regain her composure. "Of course not, Father. Is there anything I can do for you before I go home?"
"Just get some rest." Peter tried to force a smile. "We need to have those magic fingers at their peak tomorrow, right?"
"Of course. Good night, Father."
Peter settled back down into his chair and turned the game back on. Wigan had scored, but he found himself unable to pay attention. What in the world had this Father O'Doyle done that could have been so bad? Okay, so he shouldn't have been out drinking the night before, even if it was the happy parents footing the bill. And he certainly shouldn't have been late for the event. But what else might he have done that was horrible enough to have him removed?
"Okay, I have to know," Peter said to his only audience - a picture of the Virgin Mary on the wall near his chair. He turned off the radio and went to call Brendan. The line was engaged. "Maybe I don't have to know, then." On the other hand, Brendan would be the first to remind him that those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. He called again. Engaged. Perhaps he'd just go down the street and see if Padraig and Kevin were back from Cilldargan. After all, it was his duty to call on the infirm, wasn't it? He reached for a jacket and opened the door. A light rain had begun to fall, and Peter put up his hood. He had hardly made it two steps from the house when the light rain turned into a downpour. Peter bolted back to the dry confines of his house. "Perhaps you're trying to tell me something," he asked the Blessed Virgin. "All right, I know when I'm licked; I'm going to bed."
The next day showed little evidence of the rains of the prior evening. The two birds still sang in the tree next to the wall. Peter found a packed sanctuary awaiting him for the christening. This is it, he told himself as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Don't let 'em get to you. As he walked down the aisle, he noticed shocked stares from the congregation. Hadn't they seen an English priest before, he thought. Kathleen glanced back and hit a sour chord on the organ as he knelt down before the altar. He looked down humbly to cross himself and realized that he was wearing only his socks. Apart from that, the priest had no clothes. Peter Clifford looked up at the crucifix above the altar and screamed.